Le Cirque Empire
by nlizzette7
Summary: The Empire Circus stretches and curls beneath New York City, winding its way around rusted pipes and draping sewage in silk. / Chuck x Blair, circus AU.


_You're a tough little tadpole to love._

_Naughty lilies and lures._  
_Oh, I was knocked to the floor._  
_Never tasted as sweet a poison as you have._  
_You're an urge that can never be cured._

_You're a bad little love_  
_And I'm yours._

* * *

The Empire Circus stretches and curls beneath New York City, winding its way around rusted pipes and draping sewage in silk. On the Upper East Side, thumps can be heard beneath the concrete, whispers that rustle Central Park's grass. Cement eaters press street illusionists into the graffitied underground; building scalers clink glasses with East Village freak show acts, stealing kisses before slipping through glass mirrors and red smoke, spinning out onstage.

Chuck pops a liquor red hot onto his tongue; it snaps into a flame before hardening once more.

* * *

The Empire Circus is Manhattan's best kept secret, an underground spiral of magic and scandal, the darkest carnival Manhattan's ever seen. Black and red invitations flutter through potholes and under forgotten rocks four times each year. The Winter Circus, when ice breathers paint the underground in the sort of chill that rivals Wollman Rink, and the hallucinogenic hot chocolate will leave guests spinning for the entire season. The Spring Circus, and its suffocating spring gardens, flowers that sing to their guests, bite ears and finger tips, the rain room that some never come out of. The Summer Circus, tattooed dagger jugglers in Armani suits, diamond girls and boys sprinkling the audience in skyline lights.

And The Fall Circus, in desperate need of a tightrope walker.

* * *

Some boys inherit Manhattan.

Others, the world beneath.

* * *

"Sis."

Serena side-eyes her stepbrother, pinches one blonde curl with a sigh. "Chuck."

"You make my name sound like an insult."

"Good," Serena chirps. "Then the tone was right."

"Better get ready for your..." Chuck smirks, purses his lips. "What...exactly is it that you do again?"

"The disappearing - "

"The disappearing act," Chuck finishes, laughs under his breath. "Of course." Serena ignores him, glances at the television monitor in their underground suite, sees guests swallowing down apple cider, screaming in their excess as the room tumbles and spins, red and orange leaves floating backwards before breaking into one thousand sparks of light.

"Try not to be a scumbag?" Serena pleads over her shoulder.

"Try not to ask the impossible," Chuck retorts. But she's already gone, a puff of smoke in her wake.

Chuck straightens his blue pinstriped suit, quaffs his hair in the mirror, and with one spin, he's standing mid-stage, alone in a crowd of Upper East Siders.

Illusions can be a funny thing.

* * *

Two days after that fall show, Blair Waldorf is stirring her drink in Peacock Alley, lipgloss coating the rim of her glass, highlighted curls kissing her jawline with every sip. She holds a French novella in one hand, uncrosses her legs, crosses them again.

"A single-malt," Blair hears, awfully close to her ear. The voice is deep, and the man's arm stretches past her, his fingers flex atop the bar counter.

"Personal space?" Blair hisses at the air.

His arm brushes hers, and her eyes nearly roll back. He smells like a fire that isn't burning. Somehow, it makes sense.

"I prefer yours," the man quips. There's a smile in his voice, and she knows its a line he's used before. But when Blair spins in her chair, he's slack-jawed, hazel eyes glinting with a familiarity she can't put her finger on.

"Bass," is all he manages to say, running a hand over his sharp jaw to bring back the suaveness.

Blair raises a brow, goes back to stirring her drink. "You're a fish?"

Chuck inches closer. "Is this roleplay?"

Blair regards him for a moment, eyebrows furrowing and lips smiling like she doesn't know if his joke is charming or deranged. She settles for both, folds her book into her purse, and he watches, grinning, as she downs the rest of her drink in one gulp.

Chuck lets her leave, only because he has a way of always stumbling upon the things he really wants.

* * *

That night, at the circus, Penelope Shafai contorts herself into a glass cube. A little blonde, Jennifer Humphrey, switches whole outfits in under two seconds.

Chuck manipulates the crowd into a sea of lost things with the snap of his fingers - all while swallowing down as many of the red hot candies it'll take to see brown curls and bright pink lips.

* * *

She comes back to the Waldorf-Astoria the next week, has the same drink she always does, though it's a different novel this time.

When she's done, she slips through the hotel doors, and Chuck watches her walk down the street, stomps out his cigarette as she steps through the crowd. In her heels, she is startling balanced, staring straightforward, curls bouncing, one foot always right in front of the other.

That is, until a stranger accidentally steps into her path, a jerk that would send anyone else to the ground, but she -

She catches herself in one swift jump, feet still positioned in one neat line, path still intact.

Chuck parts his lips, snaps under his coat sleeve, makes the light turn red so that he'll have time to catch up.

* * *

Blair is quiet and calculating when Chuck drags her through a pair of doors inside of the Waldorf-Astoria she's never seen. She feels a rush of cold, like they've just walked through the wall. He moves like a ghost without a conscience, and somehow his hand fits right around hers.

"This is supposed to be an urban legend," she remarks. The abandoned platform that stands hollow beneath the hotel is a gem for tourist talk, but Blair's never cared much for the rumors. When she'd been society's darling, the Waldorf-Astoria had been an exile's land. The steps of the Met were her kingdom, the pavement her Emerald City. She'd had nothing in common with it but a namesake.

Things were different now.

Blair curls her fingers tighter around Chuck's as the air grows thicker, the dank stairway and dirty cement begin to spin under her feet. Blair's eyes widen, and Chuck loops a finger through the hoop of her bright red dress, those slick features softening to reassure her that it's okay.

"You're wrong, Waldorf." He tips her chin, and she realizes he's doing it to distract her, not infuriate her, for satin and velvet is rolling off the walls, the smell of crisp apples and perfume fills her nose, and the floor vanishes all together, leaving them flying and falling, all at the same time.

"Focus on me," Chuck rasps against the curve of her neck, and Blair stifles a gasp, never one to be afraid. "When the Waldorf-Astoria was at its prime, a select few VIPs were given entrance to the secret platform. My father was one of those."

Blair slips her hands across his shoulders, under his suit jacket, down one of the pinstripes.

"One man's trash," Chuck smirked, "was my father's treasure."

"But that was back..." Blair crinkles her brow. "That was in the early _1900s_." The room gives a shake, lights blind Blair's eyes. Chuck raises a brow, as if any of it was supposed to make sense. And when everything stops, Chuck stands behind her, holds her waist as Blair stares up at the flashing sign, dotted intricately with white lights, suspended in the air by nothing at all.

There are tent flaps without a tent, the sounds of cheers, haunting circus chimes, and hazy lights bursting out from the inside. The room is impossibly large, the ceilings impossibly tall.

The Empire Circus, it reads.

"Bass," Blair whispers, tugging at his hand to drag him inside.

Chuck smiles at the nape of her neck, runs his thumb over hers. "What are you, Waldorf? A fish?"

* * *

Serena pulls Blair into a hug so tight that it almost sends the brunette into cardiac arrest. But when the blonde expresses an interest in classic films and French vacations, Blair lets Serena dress her up in a red, blue, and black number with a small smile, cap sleeves and bows now tied around her ankles. Her hair is pinned on one side, curls side-swept and flawless by her neck.

The tightrope she's to walk on is suspended over nothing at all. The spotlight will be held on her as she dances a straight line over darkness. She'll read one of her books as she does it, and the crowd will gasp, all eyes on her.

She likes the idea of it.

"Oh, wow," Serena sighs, clasping her hands together at the sight of her new friend.

Behind them, Chuck stands by the door, short of breath and clutching his chest. The stripes on his suit match the bow tied tight on her waist.

She glances over her shoulder at him, and his smile is sheepish, his jaw clenched tight. There are holes, Blair realizes, that puncture your skin and grow in your heart, holes that hollow you out. Holes made bent over in bathrooms, made impossibly drunk after circus shows.

When Blair slides by him, Chuck holds her there, her elbow against the crook of his arm.

Holes, Blair considers, that are meant to be filled.

* * *

After the show, Chuck drags her into a room of clouds. All of it is impossible, a dream out of her novels, and he tries to kiss her, but she won't let him, just laughs as he makes disgruntled sounds against the hollow of her throat, the arch of her cheekbones, her fluttering eyelids.

"None of this is real," she says to the sky.

Chuck kisses her in a place that makes her arch.

He whispers, "All of it is real."

* * *

**[1] Shout out to The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, my favorite novel, which helped inspire this one.**

**[2] Check out the abandoned train platform under the Waldorf-Astoria. It's real!**


End file.
